


The Ides of August

by osprey_archer



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a sultry summer afternoon, Bunny entertains Raffles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ides of August

“It’s damnably hot,” said Raffles, blowing a cloud of smoke from his Sullivan. The smoke drifted out of the mouth of our cave and seemed to disperse into the general heat haze that hung over the countryside. 

Damnably hot indeed. Noon was still hours away, but already my head pounded from the high August heat. My eyes felt dry and scratchy, even as the rest of my body grew damp with sweat. The golden stone walls of the country house below shimmered in the heat, and the thought floated into my swimming head that perhaps Raffles and I were staking out a house that did not exist. Perhaps all of Cornwall was no more than a mirage. 

I took another quick swig of water from my canteen and tried to wipe the sweat off my forehead with my shirt sleeve, shaking my head at my own idle fancies. Were the jewels inside truly worth all these hours baking in this heat? 

I had no way of knowing. As usual, Raffles had told me nothing about our plans. 

I glanced up at Raffles. Over the course of the afternoon he had discarded coat, waistcoat, and tie, and now he reclined on a large rock near the mouth of the cave with the lethargic grace of a lion. The top button of his shirt gaped open, exposing the hollow of his throat. 

On the floor at his feet I shifted irritably, tugging at my sweat-soaked collar. The starch had wilted out of the linen hours ago, and now it itched at my neck like briars. 

“Damnably dull, as well,” said Raffles. He lifted his dangling Sullivan, the movement slow in the heat. He leaned his head back as he brought the cigarette to his lips, and I could see his throat work as he inhaled. He let out the smoke in a long, slow breath, then lifted his head to fix his gaze on me. “I don’t suppose you brought along a card deck, old boy.” 

Under his scrutiny I hastily checked my pockets, even though I knew I hadn’t. “Sorry,” I said. My poor card-playing could hardly have entertained Raffles, anyway. 

Raffles inhaled from his Sullivan again, then let his hand fall to the side. The cigarette slipped from beneath his fingers. Raffles allowed his head to loll to the side to look at the cigarette smoldering on the cave floor and let out a sigh, then rolled his head back in place. He lifted his hand, plucking at his shirt buttons, and then let his hand drop, as if the movement were too much effort in that oppressive heat.

“Let me, Raffles,” I said, rolling onto my knees and shuffling toward the rock. Raffles flicked his hand at me in invitation, and I leaned over him to undo the buttons on his shirt. 

I had acted as valet for Raffles a few times before, mostly when he needed a quick costume change during a heist. I never told him what pleasure that little intimacy gave me: my hands so close to him that I could feel the heat rise from his body, so close that I brushed occasionally, tantalizingly, against his skin.

Even drunk I knew better than to give into that temptation. But the soporific heat of the day acted on me more strongly than any brandy. As I leaned over Raffles, the smell of soap and Sullivan’s and his own particular musk enveloped me. The scent swirled straight to my already dizzy head. I fumbled the top button open, drawing in my breath when the button finally slipped through the button hole and the shirt parted. 

The shape of the rock forced him to arch his back slightly as he reclined, and his muscles stood out taut beneath his skin. Without thinking, I pressed my hand against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat beneath my palm: calm and steady, as always. My own pounded in my ears, nearly twice as fast as his. 

“Bunny?” Raffles murmured. 

I should have snatched my hand away, but I could barely move to turn my head to look at him. He looked down at me, his lids hooding his eyes, and I froze under his gaze like a mouse before a cobra. 

I did not fear he would turn me over to the police. Raffles was not that kind of man. But he would be disgusted with me. He would send me away from him, and there was no worse fate.

But Raffles did not look disgusted. Indeed, his mouth curved up slightly, tolerant and amused. “That innocent look hides volumes, Bunny,” he said. 

I believe I stuttered something. I do not remember what. Raffles lifted one of his hands to my face, pressing two fingers against my lips, and I ceased to speak. I felt barely unable to breathe. 

“Well, go on then,” Raffles said. He took his fingers from my lips and patted my cheek, then made himself comfortable on the rock with his arms crossed behind his head. His eyelids hooded his eyes, but I could feel him watching me. The amused half smile had not fallen away from his lips. 

“What would you like me to do?” I asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Raffles said negligently. “Entertain me.” 

I remained kneeling beside him, my hand pressed against his stomach. Sweat trickled down my back. I felt quite as paralyzed by his generosity as I had by the fear of his disgust. I knew that beautiful women threw themselves at him, and doubtless handsome and experienced men did as well, if more discreetly. It seemed impossible that the great A. J. Raffles could lay himself out like this to my own fumbling inexperience. 

Raffles took pity on me in my confusion. “Finish taking off my shirt,” he directed. 

My mind grew blissfully blank. I undid the rest of his buttons, my fingers trembling so that it was hard to grip them, and parted the two sides of his shirt to expose his leanly muscled chest and flat stomach. A thin line of black hair trailed from his navel to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers. 

I pressed my hand against his stomach, feeling the firm muscle beneath his skin. My lips followed my hand. His skin tasted salty from the sweat of the hot morning. 

The taste intoxicated me like champagne. I stroked my fingers slowly along the ridges of his ribs, up along his chest. His heartbeat remained almost steady: Raffles was always steady, even after a brush with death or a bare escape from capture. 

The muscles in his stomach clenched as he propped himself up on his elbows. I looked up at him, and he cast on me one of his most dazzling smiles. Of course, all Raffles’ smiles were dazzling to me. But this was his conspiratorial smile, the one he cast on me after teasing the Criminologists’ Club or Inspector Mackenzie with double entendres that almost admitted his burglaries: the smile that said only the two of us understood the game that Raffles was playing, that he let only me in on his secrets. 

This was a game to him, too, just as burglary was a game. But I had meant it, that first night, when I told him that I would do anything for him. It did not matter that it would mean incomparably more to me than him, as if he were still captain of the elevens and I still only his fag: I would do anything, anything to please him. 

I dipped my tongue into his navel. Raffles made a faint noise, almost distressed, and at the sound my blood roared in my ears and my groin so that I could hear little else. I moved my mouth lower, following the line of hair until the waistband of his trousers blocked my further progress. 

My hands trembled on the fall of his trousers even more than they had on the buttons of his shirt. I had only undone the top two buttons when Raffles’ own hands arrested my fingers. “Bunny,” Raffles said. His wicked grin had fallen away, and he looked at me from beneath concerned brows. A faint flush had risen to his cheeks. “You needn’t do anything you don’t want to do, just to entertain me.” 

It was not a problem of not wanting. It was wanting too much, far more than Raffles would ever give. “I do want to,” I insisted, shaking off his hands. It seemed to steady my hands to say it: my hands no longer shook as I finished unbuttoning his trousers, and he made no further objection as I took him in my mouth. 

It was over swiftly after that. When he was spent, I wiped my mouth off on my cuff, suddenly embarrassed. My cheeks flamed painfully, and I could not quite lift my eyes to him. “Well, then,” I said, and the cheeriness of my voice seemed strange and tinny to my ears. “Was that all right?”

“Splendid, old boy,” Raffles said lazily. One of his hands groped around in the air for a moment before coming to rest on my hair. “A bit sloppy, but splendid.” 

For some time we remained that way, as if stupefied by the drowsy heat. Raffles reclined on his rock, not at all minding that he was half naked, and I sat curled up at his feet with his hand stroking lazily through my hair.

Suddenly he stood up so quickly that he almost knocked me over. 

“They’re finally going out,” Raffles said, buttoning his trousers and snatching up his shirt. “Come along, Bunny.” 

“Come along?” I said stupidly. 

“Yes, Bunny,” Raffles said, briskly knotting his tie. He began to walk down the hillside, buttoning his waistcoat and speaking at me over his shoulder as he went. “Lady Montrain has the most fabulous padparadscha sapphire in her tiara, the size of a scarab they say. And we’ll have the run of the house this morning, because the Montrains insist that all their servants must attend church. We won’t get another chance like this.” 

“No,” I agreed mournfully. And I followed him down the hill, as I would follow him anywhere.


End file.
